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Camping

W e chose Washington Crossing State Park as our point of embarkation. We waved goodbye to New Jersey as we crossed the Delaware River in Jack’s 1968 Royal Red Volkswagen Beetle. My wedding gift to him was a tune-up on his six-year-old vehicle. His gift to me was a thorough cleaning of the interior and trunk.

We headed north through New England, crossed into Canada, and visited Prince Edward Island and Nova Scotia. Jack lavished attention on me. He never brought up Tommy and Lee or the troubles waiting for us back in New Jersey.

I hadn’t been fishing since my grandfather took me out on his Steelcraft boat off the coast of Atlantic Highlands. Fishing in Nova Scotia brought back memories of those trips from my childhood. The cool Canadian winds whipped back my hair and sprayed my face with cold, fresh salt water. Ava Harrison ceased to exist. Ava Novak came alive.

On our drive south, we wove our way through New England and down to Pennsylvania, where we picked up the Pennsylvania Turnpike. We often found ourselves camping in state parks, showering in dank, dark, spider-infested stalls. But by the time we arrived in Wisconsin, the scenery, campgrounds, and fishing made it all worthwhile.

Jack was happier than I’d ever seen him.

“I’ve wanted to trout fish in Wisconsin since I was a kid,” he said.

We fished at various spots along the Kinnickinnic River, a tributary of the Milwaukee River. Some nights we pitched our tent along the riverbank and bathed in the cool river water. I felt the power of the water—the great purifier—washing away my transgressions. I was reborn.

From Wisconsin we drove to Grand Teton National Park in Wyoming. Snowcapped mountains framed Jackson Lake. Sunsets shone grander than any I’d ever seen. Elk, deer, and mountain goats roamed without fear.

“It’s heaven on earth,” I said.

“With you, any place is heaven,” Jack said.

“That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

Our last stop was the Yellowstone River in southern Montana. Jack couldn’t get enough trout, fresh air, and time in nature. We found a campground with clean showers and friendly campers. He scored an ounce of pot from the assistant manager, enough to get us back to New Jersey.

Part of me couldn’t wait for the trip to end; the other part wanted to melt into the beauty of the western landscapes forever.

Finally, reality won. We ran out of money and headed for home.